Three Months
by Thepolymathwriter
Summary: An exploration of the three months Echo and Paul were missing, during which Echo really evolved her sense of self and gained control of her personalities. Also a little exploration as a writer of tone and character, as Echo amalgamates who she is. Set during 2.7 "Meet Jane Doe", approximately 2 weeks following Echo's escape from the local sheriff.


**Note: I just finished marathons of both seasons of Dollhouse over two days, and what this really is more than anything is my practice as a writer. Echo in her confused and compounded state would be a remarkable character to try to write for, and we missed much of that confusion with the three-month time jump in the second season. This is my working with my own use of tone as a writer, and filling in those three months of 'evolution' in Echo's self awareness. Enjoy!**

Noise. Light. Sound. More light. A seemingly faceless blur of senses, threatening to overtake her very being. Change that, it was her very being. She blinked and shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness that was herself amidst the fuzziness and the blur and the pain. It was if every time she blinked she saw the world with new eyes. She was new eyes. Yet before such eyes could even adjust, they were gone again only to be serially replaced one after another after another. An endless torrent of sense and feelings and emotion. Up was down, right was left, the real was unreal. All she could do against the flaming torrent was brace herself as the senses continued their barrage. A cacophony of life. That was who she was, nothing more.

-Kiki opened her eyes, and let them come into focus. Where the hell was she? She shook her head and her hands were immediately drawn to her hair, bunched up tight into a twisted knot of dirt and twigs and a whole ton of nasty grossness. Eww. Hastily, Kiki's fingers worked through the snags….what if someone saw her like this for heaven's sake? A girl's most important asset was her hair, Kiki knew that. She's read somewhere in one of her stupidly long American lit classes that some Fitzgerry guy wrote in a book that the best thing in the world a girl can be is a pretty fool, Kiki disagreed. The best thing in this world a girl could be was fashionable, stylish and good haired. That was a fact. Kiki slowly started to raise herself, surveying where the heck she'd gotten herself this time. Dusty alley that smelled like gross things; then again, now that she thought about it, she smelled like gross things. A brick wall behind her, the rush of cars in the distance. Cars….maybe there were people who could help her get back home! She was so totally a genius for thinking about that. Kiki patted herself on the back for being so damn smart, and sexy for that matter. But dirty too….that needed to change right-

-now Esther was elated. Esther's eyes adjusted to the hazy light of the sun-filled alley. It shone with such a brilliant intensity, as if the Lord himself were welcoming her into this place with a beacon of hope. Suddenly a searing memory burned through her brain of a different light. Of fire, of children of the Lord. The last light she remembered seeing, in the short time since her sight had been miraculously returned. Was this heaven perhaps? God's way of thanking her for revealing Jonas' ill intent. She started down the alley and toward the nearby street; her arms limp at her sides in anticipation of reaching out to something. Whatever that something may be she had no idea, but something was coming. Something-

-was definitely up here. Roma stared down the street with a puzzled look. Where was she? What had happened to Paul, or for that matte that filthy scum of a weapons mogul Martin? Neither of them seemed anywhere nearby, which for that matter could be seen as either good or bad both ways. And why was she so dirty and messed up? Had one of Klar's groupies slipped something into her and dumped her here? Wherever here is that is…No matter. Roma was resourceful, and her spirits perked when she saw the county sheriff's office down the street, just flash her badge and everything'll work itself out. She'd be home sipping mocha before noon tomorrow. She strode with purpose down the quiet street, forcefully ignoring the looks of-

-everybody on the street. Jordan liked the looks, let em come. It was no different than being on stage, living the dream. People look at you cause you're something special. Cause you're different and something worth looking at. Jordan didn't mind that. Not one-

-gaze was unnoticed. Eleanor's breath caught in her throat as she walked, consciously aware of every gaze that fell over her. Her lungs tightened and she stopped walking mere steps from the sheriff's office door, feeling the characteristic wheeze of asthma grip her being. She fumbled around on her clothes-not her normal business suit for that matter-but couldn't find the comforting plastic shape. Panic gripped her and she looked around her desperately, suddenly aware of her absent glasses and the blurred nature of the people who-

-all knew she was here. Taffy froze. What the hell was she doing? Here. Outside of the hotspot of the fuzz. Low-class, eat em for breakfast, beat em with your eyes closed fuzz, but fuzz nonetheless. She shrank back against the office's brick wall, searching fro solutions; ways to get out, across the street there was a minivan with noticeably unlocked doors. If she could just bolt over there, send a little hotwire love tot hat engine, she'd be halfway to Reno by tomorrow. Taffy clenched her teeth, cracked her knuckles and-

-ran straight into the office. "Officers," Roma gasped, "you need to help me."

-"I mean, ain't no worry honeys, I'll just be on my way," Taffy countered casually.

-"No, my name is Alice and something damn isn't right here, I need help."

-"No, I'm Kiki, and I'm just like really confused and lost and stuff and my hair is just freakin nasty and-"

-"Goodness gracious," Terry smiled nervously and gripped his clammy hands, "what a lovely office you…" He gulped, and paused awkwardly.

-She turned in an instant and had the portly officer at the desk pinned against the wall with one hand on his throat the other venturing down towards his crotch region. "Now honey," her voice was smooth as a glass dagger, "I'm going to count to three and you're going to tell me where the bomb is. One, two-"

-She collapsed, the sensory overload taking over once more. She saw nothing and saw everything. Voices screamed with elegant whispers, while pictures flashed through the reality before her many eyes. Echoes of something of someone. A something was a someone who did something for someone at some time in some place with something for someone….In the distance she could make out the yelling of the officers, in the distance she could feel arms around her waist, lifting her-

-towards light and salvation, Esther was ascending to-

-somewhere bad, somewhere really bad. Jenny screamed and bit down on the hand around her waist, thrashing out, and she felt several more hands lock around her ankles, she screamed louder-

-the noise was unbearable and eerily silent, like a thousand radios turned on in a broom closet but only getting static. White noise. Too much. So much. Too much. Not enough. Darkness comes and with it, silence.

-Eleanor woke up on a bench, in a white room. She'd seen plenty enough of these in Quantico to know she was in a cell. Prison. The slammer. Whatever the colloquial slang the kids had for it these days, it was the same. The question that next came was why? She remembered the panic on the street, the gripping of her breathing and then…this. Reasoning would say such things were impossible. Yet Eleanor knew that even the most seemingly impossible had its way of becoming possible. If only she had some sort of ID on her, she could figure this who situation out, figure out why she was here and how to get back to her job. That's where she belonged, on the other side of that cell door looking in, not out. She fumbled around her clothing once more, realizing she must have been wearing this same grimy sweatshirt and shorts for weeks if not more. The dirt was so encrusted, she couldn't even guess what an original color would have been. She could only imagine the state of her own persona, usually kept so neat and clean. Eleanor was better than this, yet why was she this way? What had happened? Some sort of retaliation from someone she'd worked against in the past? Had….had she been taken again? Her eyes blurred in fear and adrenaline for just a moment as that realization came across her. Before she could ponder further however, the door opened and a round, unshaven police office strode in. He wreaked of old cheese fries and beer…but then again Eleanor wasn't exactly one to talk. She straightened her posture to face the man.

"Why am I here? You have no right to take an innocent woman off the street. I demand reparation, and mark my words, Quantico will hear of this," she spoke with carefully constructed confidence, trying to ease her way into his good graces. "I've done nothing wrong. Who are you to just grab me and…." The officer chuckled to himself, but stayed several feet away from her.

-Roma noticed the bruised finger marks around his neck, and wondered who would be quick enough to even get over this man's belly let alone grab him by the jugular. "I might ask you the same question," the officer smiled devilishly to her, but reached a tentative hand to stroke his damaged neck. "Who are you, my dear? We've been asking ourselves that for the last few days and no one can seem to tell us, so maybe you with your high and mighty confidence here can."

-"I'm Emily Jordan," she gasped, and her eyes fell on her location. "And my son is Jack…where is he? Where's Nate? What's going on….I need my son. He needs me." She started to stand up, but her wrists were chained to the bench.

-"No, I'm Alice and this is getting fricken weird here," she sighed, but didn't sit back down, "I didn't sign the hell up for this, I-

-am so totally confused, like oh my god is this like prison or something? I'm too pretty for prison!" Kiki's voice was a drawn out whine. She waved her hands in front of her face, flustered. The officer, took a step back, fear crossing is face. "This ain't right," he mumbled to himself, quickly turning and heading out of the cell door. Kiki started to cry. Why did life suck so epicly sometimes?

The officer emerged into the hallway where an older man with a beard stood. "Sheriff, I don't know what's her deal but it sure as hell ain't right," he said, casting a weary eye back to the cell, which echoed with Kiki's sobbing.

"Did you get her name?"

"More than one, but I only got one full name out her ramblings, Kiki Turner…" the officer replied.

"Run her through the system like anyone else then Brad," the sheriff motioned for him to leave. "Maybe someone out there knows our little friend. We wouldn't want something to happen to….Kiki."

The sheriff sighed and strode over to the cell door's tiny window, peering in. The girl was no longer sobbing, just sitting rigidly on the bench, her hands gripping the cuffs around her wrists. Suddenly her gaze met his and she smiled for a moment, a smile so cruel and twisted, that the Sheriff felt his heart stop for an instant. His breath caught in his throat, and an overwhelming sense of fear crept up his spine. He shook his head and looked back at her. The rigidness dissipated. Slowly she slumped onto the bench, a vacant expression overcoming her persona. He heard five words slip her small mouth.

"I try to be my best."

Somewhere, miles away, a man huddled over a computer screen, taking in and processing everything before his eyes. Eight empty coffee to-go cups were strewn about he desk before him, and circles ringed his eyes, but he kept searching, looking….anything. Finally a name appeared on a database in rural Texas. A single name, one of many that he'd know anywhere. The man hastily clicked the attached link and gasped as the adjoining picture appeared. There she was. Beaten. Battered. Bruised…but there. The man pushed back his chair and stood up, a single name on his lips yet not Kiki Turner.

Paul Ballard threw on his coat, whispering softly to himself.

"Echo."


End file.
